Friday, May 30, 2008
On the Move
As of today (thanks, Doug!), this show is moving over to my website, www.kathleenbasi.com. Come visit me there!
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Not like me
Now that I have my little technical difficulty worked out (some Bible site kept coming up. How weird is that?), I just want to say that it is not like me to be up at 11:11 p.m., puzzling over a craft ornament while my husband watches the questionable entertainment available on TV at that time of night.
I have my first assignment from an editor, and I'm very excited about it, but I must say I'm finding it more difficult than working out my own ideas. When the idea comes from within me, I know the seed of the idea and the circumstances that brought it into being. The idea germinates and sprouts organically.
Right now I am brainstorming, trying to feel my way into a central concept, something to pull the article together. I have no doubt that I'll get it, it's just harder than I expected. Which, of course, is why I'm sitting up at 11:00 at night trying to figure out how to make a 3-D diamond-shaped Christmas ornament pattern.
I think I need to call it quits and go to bed. I'm a morning person. I've been up since 5:56 a.m.
I have my first assignment from an editor, and I'm very excited about it, but I must say I'm finding it more difficult than working out my own ideas. When the idea comes from within me, I know the seed of the idea and the circumstances that brought it into being. The idea germinates and sprouts organically.
Right now I am brainstorming, trying to feel my way into a central concept, something to pull the article together. I have no doubt that I'll get it, it's just harder than I expected. Which, of course, is why I'm sitting up at 11:00 at night trying to figure out how to make a 3-D diamond-shaped Christmas ornament pattern.
I think I need to call it quits and go to bed. I'm a morning person. I've been up since 5:56 a.m.
Test post
Something very bizarre is happening tonight as I try to access my blog, so this is nothing more than a test.
Date Night
They’re always better when you don’t have any expectations going in. And it wasn’t an auspicious start, with Alex tearing after me wailing as I went out the door. How do you explain to a three-year-old that Mommy and Daddy will be more fun to be around if they get some time together, time to relax and be friends and lovers?
We drove to the opposite end of town and beyond, out into the country south on Providence Road, chasing a Katy Trail access that we haven’t visited in so long that we never did find it. Instead, we ended up at Cooper’s Landing, which looked enormously different than we remembered. Eventually we remembered that the owner had picked up his two-story building and moved it upriver, so it wasn’t that our memories were faulty; it actually was different. A lot busier, a lot noisier. We walked away from the campground, and set up a picnic blanket on the weedy gravel berm separating the road from the river. There we stayed for an hour, eating our picnic dinner and watching the sunset.
The colors on the Missouri River were like nothing I remember seeing before. I can put on paper that the sun shot an orange-yellow arrow across the river toward us; I can write that to the north, the water swirled in streaky patches of orchid and more shades of blue than I can name—one so pale that it was barely blue, another a dark, vivid royal. The colors on the water changed, deepened, molded and melded. But all of that can’t really communicate what it looked like. I understand now how artists can paint the same scene over and over. To us it looks like multiple pictures of the same scene. But to someone whose eye is trained to color, it must be fulfilling to use a completely different color palate to create the same landscape. I desperately wanted the camera, but unfortunately, between me dropping it off the tram at the Arboretum in Chicago and Christian trying to fix it, we now have no camera. So it lives only in memory. And perhaps it’s better that way.
At last we picked up and walked back to the truck. We decided to re-orient ourselves, so we went driving, looking for Easley, where Cooper’s Landing used to be. And we found it. There is a cave up on the bluff at Easley, which they closed several years ago—placed a boulder across the trail and fenced the entrance, I don’t remember why (vandalism? Bats?). It was amazing to see how quickly nature can obliterate the signs of human presence. That stretch of river bluff has always been overgrown, but we’re not sure we ever saw the cave last night. And the trail is almost indistinguishable now. Someone’s still using it—there’s about a foot-wide bare strip—but it’s definitely returned to the wild. We realized we haven’t been to Easley at least since we’ve been married.
When we got home last night, the kids were asleep. I got Julianna up to nurse. Afterwards, I snuggled with her. She was half asleep, her eyes opening and closing at lazy intervals, and she would give me this silly smile. When I put her down in her crib again, there was no protest. She just conked back out instantly. Then I went into Alex’s room and found him drenched in sweat and curled up in a ball with his face pressed against the ship wheel head board, with every animal he owns wedged against his body.
Ah, life is good.
We drove to the opposite end of town and beyond, out into the country south on Providence Road, chasing a Katy Trail access that we haven’t visited in so long that we never did find it. Instead, we ended up at Cooper’s Landing, which looked enormously different than we remembered. Eventually we remembered that the owner had picked up his two-story building and moved it upriver, so it wasn’t that our memories were faulty; it actually was different. A lot busier, a lot noisier. We walked away from the campground, and set up a picnic blanket on the weedy gravel berm separating the road from the river. There we stayed for an hour, eating our picnic dinner and watching the sunset.
The colors on the Missouri River were like nothing I remember seeing before. I can put on paper that the sun shot an orange-yellow arrow across the river toward us; I can write that to the north, the water swirled in streaky patches of orchid and more shades of blue than I can name—one so pale that it was barely blue, another a dark, vivid royal. The colors on the water changed, deepened, molded and melded. But all of that can’t really communicate what it looked like. I understand now how artists can paint the same scene over and over. To us it looks like multiple pictures of the same scene. But to someone whose eye is trained to color, it must be fulfilling to use a completely different color palate to create the same landscape. I desperately wanted the camera, but unfortunately, between me dropping it off the tram at the Arboretum in Chicago and Christian trying to fix it, we now have no camera. So it lives only in memory. And perhaps it’s better that way.
At last we picked up and walked back to the truck. We decided to re-orient ourselves, so we went driving, looking for Easley, where Cooper’s Landing used to be. And we found it. There is a cave up on the bluff at Easley, which they closed several years ago—placed a boulder across the trail and fenced the entrance, I don’t remember why (vandalism? Bats?). It was amazing to see how quickly nature can obliterate the signs of human presence. That stretch of river bluff has always been overgrown, but we’re not sure we ever saw the cave last night. And the trail is almost indistinguishable now. Someone’s still using it—there’s about a foot-wide bare strip—but it’s definitely returned to the wild. We realized we haven’t been to Easley at least since we’ve been married.
When we got home last night, the kids were asleep. I got Julianna up to nurse. Afterwards, I snuggled with her. She was half asleep, her eyes opening and closing at lazy intervals, and she would give me this silly smile. When I put her down in her crib again, there was no protest. She just conked back out instantly. Then I went into Alex’s room and found him drenched in sweat and curled up in a ball with his face pressed against the ship wheel head board, with every animal he owns wedged against his body.
Ah, life is good.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Random tidbits
I cannot keep up with anything this week, so you get the headlines overview (and perhaps a brief editorial).
JULIANNA IS CRAWLING! Not by herself, but definitely she is driven to move. I can tell that she's going to be a holy pain in Alex's you-know-what once she gets moving. She wants to pull his hair and lick him. He loves it. But then, he can still run away. Or sit on her.
ALEX IS WRITING LETTERS! Not well, and not by himself, and his A begins as an H and then he draws a line across the top. But jeez, he's three!
BASI'S ORGANIZE NEIGHBORHOOD TO OPPOSE TRAIL. We all bought for the gorgeous privacy of a woods and a creek in between our streets, and then we found out that our green space was on the city's list to put a trail through. Part of my last few weeks has been running all over the neighborhood going door to door collecting signatures, sending emails, and writing a letter. And today I hand-delivered it to the city council offices and the project manager. I can't help feeling bad for him. He's a very nice guy. We just don't want this trail in here, and we think we should have been told before we paid...well, a lot of money for our houses.
SALES!!!!!!!!! I have clips in hand now--a personal essay for Family Foundations from CCL, and an article for AIM (World Library, who also publishes my octavos). And I received an email last night asking me to write an article for another magazine. I couldn't get to sleep last night. Plus, in the last two weeks I have found out about two people locally and one on the East Coast who bought my flute collection. So I am very excited.
THE GRASS IS GROWING! Which is good, b/c I'm getting very tired of replanting the patches, and trying to figure out what makes it grow in one spot and not in the one right next to it, which is by all indications completely identical.
Speaking of conditions that change without apparent rhyme or reason...can anyone out there explain to me why I 70, which is a mile south of us, sounds like it's right on the other side of the creek sometimes, and other days we can't hear it at all? I thought it was wind direction, or temperature, or humidity, but after living here almost a year I cannot figure out why I hear it sometimes and not others.
Well, I have a wakey baby. Time to go.
JULIANNA IS CRAWLING! Not by herself, but definitely she is driven to move. I can tell that she's going to be a holy pain in Alex's you-know-what once she gets moving. She wants to pull his hair and lick him. He loves it. But then, he can still run away. Or sit on her.
ALEX IS WRITING LETTERS! Not well, and not by himself, and his A begins as an H and then he draws a line across the top. But jeez, he's three!
BASI'S ORGANIZE NEIGHBORHOOD TO OPPOSE TRAIL. We all bought for the gorgeous privacy of a woods and a creek in between our streets, and then we found out that our green space was on the city's list to put a trail through. Part of my last few weeks has been running all over the neighborhood going door to door collecting signatures, sending emails, and writing a letter. And today I hand-delivered it to the city council offices and the project manager. I can't help feeling bad for him. He's a very nice guy. We just don't want this trail in here, and we think we should have been told before we paid...well, a lot of money for our houses.
SALES!!!!!!!!! I have clips in hand now--a personal essay for Family Foundations from CCL, and an article for AIM (World Library, who also publishes my octavos). And I received an email last night asking me to write an article for another magazine. I couldn't get to sleep last night. Plus, in the last two weeks I have found out about two people locally and one on the East Coast who bought my flute collection. So I am very excited.
THE GRASS IS GROWING! Which is good, b/c I'm getting very tired of replanting the patches, and trying to figure out what makes it grow in one spot and not in the one right next to it, which is by all indications completely identical.
Speaking of conditions that change without apparent rhyme or reason...can anyone out there explain to me why I 70, which is a mile south of us, sounds like it's right on the other side of the creek sometimes, and other days we can't hear it at all? I thought it was wind direction, or temperature, or humidity, but after living here almost a year I cannot figure out why I hear it sometimes and not others.
Well, I have a wakey baby. Time to go.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
My sweet baby boy
Oh, my sweet baby boy isn’t a baby anymore.
Being a boy, he’s always been crazy about machinery. Especially big, noisy ones (as long as they are turned off.) About the time his vocabulary was exploding, we were in the hospital with Julianna three times, where he frequently got to watch the helicopter taking off and landing. So he began to connect those two words--he couldn’t pronounce either one. We loved it: “Hec-a-co-te-ter” and “hos-a-popo.” He figured out “helicopter” first, about four months ago. Christian and I sniff-sniffed and shrugged. Oh, well, at least he still says hos-a-po-po.
Last Wednesday, on the way home from choir practice, we passed Ellis Fischel and Alex looked over and said, “Mommy, is that a hospital?”
I wanted to wail.
Alex’s imagination is so vivid now. He’s into Peter Pan, but it’s Captain Hook who haunts his bedtime. These days, we send the tigers after Captain Hook, and then the big tigers sleep in his closet, and the babies on either side of him (along with Fredbird, Ruff-Ruff, Raggedy Andy, and Superman (who is a rattly dog) and the Julianna bear (who is baby blue). And on nights when that fearsome red-coated apparition is not present, Alex likes to lasso the tigers himself and haul them out of his room and down the hallway, stomping barefoot, his legs in a wide stance. It is so stinking funny. Yesterday I sent him to the table with forks, and he said, “Mommy, I’m going to eat my hand! My hand is ice cream!” He proceeds to dig his fork into his hand and then take an imaginary bite to his mouth. “Mmmmmm!”
This morning, I was rushing out the door with both kids, trying to get Alex to day care before I had to be at Mass, and because I was putting Julianna in the car, I wasn’t there to get my goodbye kiss from my husband when Alex got his. “Hey!” I protested, “I want a kiss!” But the front door had already closed. Oh, well. I finished strapping Julianna into the van and went looking for Alex, who was nowhere to be found.
Just as I was preparing to go down in the back looking for him, the front door opened and out came Alex, with Christian right behind. “You want a kiss?” Christian said.
Alex looked very pleased with himself. Man, he is SO SWEET. Please pardon the all caps, but he is SO SWEET!
Being a boy, he’s always been crazy about machinery. Especially big, noisy ones (as long as they are turned off.) About the time his vocabulary was exploding, we were in the hospital with Julianna three times, where he frequently got to watch the helicopter taking off and landing. So he began to connect those two words--he couldn’t pronounce either one. We loved it: “Hec-a-co-te-ter” and “hos-a-popo.” He figured out “helicopter” first, about four months ago. Christian and I sniff-sniffed and shrugged. Oh, well, at least he still says hos-a-po-po.
Last Wednesday, on the way home from choir practice, we passed Ellis Fischel and Alex looked over and said, “Mommy, is that a hospital?”
I wanted to wail.
Alex’s imagination is so vivid now. He’s into Peter Pan, but it’s Captain Hook who haunts his bedtime. These days, we send the tigers after Captain Hook, and then the big tigers sleep in his closet, and the babies on either side of him (along with Fredbird, Ruff-Ruff, Raggedy Andy, and Superman (who is a rattly dog) and the Julianna bear (who is baby blue). And on nights when that fearsome red-coated apparition is not present, Alex likes to lasso the tigers himself and haul them out of his room and down the hallway, stomping barefoot, his legs in a wide stance. It is so stinking funny. Yesterday I sent him to the table with forks, and he said, “Mommy, I’m going to eat my hand! My hand is ice cream!” He proceeds to dig his fork into his hand and then take an imaginary bite to his mouth. “Mmmmmm!”
This morning, I was rushing out the door with both kids, trying to get Alex to day care before I had to be at Mass, and because I was putting Julianna in the car, I wasn’t there to get my goodbye kiss from my husband when Alex got his. “Hey!” I protested, “I want a kiss!” But the front door had already closed. Oh, well. I finished strapping Julianna into the van and went looking for Alex, who was nowhere to be found.
Just as I was preparing to go down in the back looking for him, the front door opened and out came Alex, with Christian right behind. “You want a kiss?” Christian said.
Alex looked very pleased with himself. Man, he is SO SWEET. Please pardon the all caps, but he is SO SWEET!
Breakthrough!
You may recall that several weeks ago I had a story rejected by the Magazine of Sci Fi/Fantasy. Well, I overcame my self-loathing and sent it out again, and last night I opened my email to find an acceptance! This is my first short story acceptance, so I’m pretty tickled.
Here is my testimony to all aspiring writers. If your story gets rejected, there may not be anything wrong with it at all. When you think you’re done with it, when you’ve taken into account the differing perspectives of your critique partners, sifted out what is useful from what is not, and incorporated them…then it’s time to have faith in yourself, and in the story you have to tell to the world.
Here is my testimony to all aspiring writers. If your story gets rejected, there may not be anything wrong with it at all. When you think you’re done with it, when you’ve taken into account the differing perspectives of your critique partners, sifted out what is useful from what is not, and incorporated them…then it’s time to have faith in yourself, and in the story you have to tell to the world.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Pictures
I've been talking a lot lately and not sharing images. So here are three pictures, a little slice of our life.
Alex at the Museum of Transport (St. Louis)--dozens of trains. You do the math. (No comments please, Count. :) Just kidding. I love it when people comment.)
Alex's train cake at his 3rd birthday party
Julianna at Alex's birthday party. She loves it when I "rasberry" her feet as she swings forward to me.
Alex at the Museum of Transport (St. Louis)--dozens of trains. You do the math. (No comments please, Count. :) Just kidding. I love it when people comment.)
Alex's train cake at his 3rd birthday party
Julianna at Alex's birthday party. She loves it when I "rasberry" her feet as she swings forward to me.
Orchestra Concert
Last night I took Alex to his first orchestra concert. Christian thinks he’s too young, and I knew we might have to leave quickly and early if he just couldn’t handle it. But I think that early exposure is the best way to ensure that there is an audience for classical music for generations to come. So we went to see MU’s University Philharmonic.
It’s been eleven years now since I graduated from U Phil, and ten since I played in any orchestra (unless you count the disastrous sub gig with the Missouri Chamber Orchestra, which I’d rather forget). It was hard to be in the audience. I wanted to climb the stairs, re-explore Jesse’s backstage, steal somebody’s flute and sit down behind the violas.
I loved playing in orchestra. At some point in every semester, I’d have to grit my teeth and tolerate every other ensemble I ever participated in, but I never minded the hours spent in orchestra. Part of that was Ed Dolbashian’s charisma. But part of it was just because I love the literature.
It’s not the same to listen to a CD. When you’re in the hall, there’s this shimmer in the air, caused by the friction of bow on string. It’s magical. My body and soul relax whenever the bows first draw across the strings in unison. That ambient noise doesn’t make it onto the recordings.
Well, I think I’m going to quit, because I’m wandering rather than being concise and “teleological,” as another of my music professors used to say. (Go look it up.) Besides, I have bread to bake.
It’s been eleven years now since I graduated from U Phil, and ten since I played in any orchestra (unless you count the disastrous sub gig with the Missouri Chamber Orchestra, which I’d rather forget). It was hard to be in the audience. I wanted to climb the stairs, re-explore Jesse’s backstage, steal somebody’s flute and sit down behind the violas.
I loved playing in orchestra. At some point in every semester, I’d have to grit my teeth and tolerate every other ensemble I ever participated in, but I never minded the hours spent in orchestra. Part of that was Ed Dolbashian’s charisma. But part of it was just because I love the literature.
It’s not the same to listen to a CD. When you’re in the hall, there’s this shimmer in the air, caused by the friction of bow on string. It’s magical. My body and soul relax whenever the bows first draw across the strings in unison. That ambient noise doesn’t make it onto the recordings.
Well, I think I’m going to quit, because I’m wandering rather than being concise and “teleological,” as another of my music professors used to say. (Go look it up.) Besides, I have bread to bake.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Deep Quiet
It’s something that hardly anybody experiences anymore. I go looking for it, and I can’t find it: the deep quiet that comes in the complete absence of all manmade sound. The subsonic rumble of the city pursues us almost everywhere—so pervasive that you don’t even notice it until, suddenly, the weight is gone, the pressure lifts from your ears, and you can breathe. You breathe softly, afraid to disturb the stillness, in which a rock shifting or the step of a chipmunk sounds as loud as the ringing of the phone.
And that is when I hear my muse speak.
Have you ever experienced that? Have you really?
The last issue of Writer’s Digest made me wildly impatient, quoting its “literary hot spots,” in which one of the authors talked about the hiss of espresso machines, the buzz of ambient conversation, and the music playing, and how any author would be in Heaven. A loud, noisy, distracting, bustling coffee shop. The perfect place to write.
Well, whatever floats your boat, people. Whatever. I guess the laugh’s on me, since there are coffee shops on every corner of every city and town, and virtually nowhere is there quiet.
I challenge you—-those of you, particularly, who live in the big cities (by that I mean anything St. Louis sized on up). Find a vacation spot where there is no ambient human noise. Spend a week there. Or a day. Or even an hour. Spend your time sitting quietly, with nothing more than a piece of paper and a pen. And if, at the end of that hour, or day, or week, you don’t feel like a whole new person--full of hope and inspiration and energy--then go back to your coffee shops, your dens of white noise and distraction, and feel free to ignore to the hick Midwestern writer/mother.
And I’ll keep the quiet places for myself, thank you very much.
And that is when I hear my muse speak.
Have you ever experienced that? Have you really?
The last issue of Writer’s Digest made me wildly impatient, quoting its “literary hot spots,” in which one of the authors talked about the hiss of espresso machines, the buzz of ambient conversation, and the music playing, and how any author would be in Heaven. A loud, noisy, distracting, bustling coffee shop. The perfect place to write.
Well, whatever floats your boat, people. Whatever. I guess the laugh’s on me, since there are coffee shops on every corner of every city and town, and virtually nowhere is there quiet.
I challenge you—-those of you, particularly, who live in the big cities (by that I mean anything St. Louis sized on up). Find a vacation spot where there is no ambient human noise. Spend a week there. Or a day. Or even an hour. Spend your time sitting quietly, with nothing more than a piece of paper and a pen. And if, at the end of that hour, or day, or week, you don’t feel like a whole new person--full of hope and inspiration and energy--then go back to your coffee shops, your dens of white noise and distraction, and feel free to ignore to the hick Midwestern writer/mother.
And I’ll keep the quiet places for myself, thank you very much.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
This morning at the library
Julianna is getting tired, Alex's ibuprofin is wearing off, and it's about time to leave when I hear a solid "THUMP" from the children's stacks, and a woman starts repeating, "Oh no, oh my God, oh no, oh my God." Over and over, this dull panicky tone of voice, not screaming--just that particular timbre that brings people running. I realize that her kid has bumped his or her head. And I can't help thinking, Calm down, lady, it's just a bump on the head. We've had five this morning already.
When my children and I pass the children's desk on the way out, she's got a 5 month old baby over her shoulder, a girl on her way into unconsciousness (or sleep, who knows?), and the mother is on the phone with 911 saying that she was carrying too much and the baby slipped out of her hands and fell 5 feet.
By the time we make it outside I know that the distant sound of sirens is headed right for us. Alex is jumping up and down. "Can I see the fire truck? Can I see the fire truck?" So we stop at the corner and wait for them to arrive. A ladder truck (why, I don't know), and a Universtity Hospital ambulance scream around the corner, not twenty feet from us. It's surreal to be excited for Alex and covering Julianna's ears, simultaneously hoping that that woman really is flipping out for no reason whatsoever.
And all the way to the van, I can't talk around the lump in my throat.
love me
When my children and I pass the children's desk on the way out, she's got a 5 month old baby over her shoulder, a girl on her way into unconsciousness (or sleep, who knows?), and the mother is on the phone with 911 saying that she was carrying too much and the baby slipped out of her hands and fell 5 feet.
By the time we make it outside I know that the distant sound of sirens is headed right for us. Alex is jumping up and down. "Can I see the fire truck? Can I see the fire truck?" So we stop at the corner and wait for them to arrive. A ladder truck (why, I don't know), and a Universtity Hospital ambulance scream around the corner, not twenty feet from us. It's surreal to be excited for Alex and covering Julianna's ears, simultaneously hoping that that woman really is flipping out for no reason whatsoever.
And all the way to the van, I can't talk around the lump in my throat.
love me
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
When life intersects Hollywood--however tangenetically
(Is that even a word? Spell-check doesn't like it.)
Last night, Christian & I finally got to watch “Michael Clayton.” We’ve tried to rent it three times, but it was always out. And then after we finally got it home, it took us three nights to get all the way through the movie. But anyway, last night we did finish it, and the most interesting thing happened right as we turned it on (Scene 18 on the DVD), when George Clooney is saying goodbye to his family members after a birthday party, and in the background I heard Mike Kelley’s voice saying something about the Tigers.
I looked up from folding laundry, and sure enough, there was a basketball game on the TV in the movie. Christian didn’t catch it. He had to back it up and listen again.
Nothing particularly earth-shattering—just cool. The Kelley’s have moved on now, but they used to sit in the second or third row at Lourdes every 10:00 Mass—we even had their daughter in the choir for a few short weeks—and it was pretty cool to have something so close to home show up in a movie.
Last night, Christian & I finally got to watch “Michael Clayton.” We’ve tried to rent it three times, but it was always out. And then after we finally got it home, it took us three nights to get all the way through the movie. But anyway, last night we did finish it, and the most interesting thing happened right as we turned it on (Scene 18 on the DVD), when George Clooney is saying goodbye to his family members after a birthday party, and in the background I heard Mike Kelley’s voice saying something about the Tigers.
I looked up from folding laundry, and sure enough, there was a basketball game on the TV in the movie. Christian didn’t catch it. He had to back it up and listen again.
Nothing particularly earth-shattering—just cool. The Kelley’s have moved on now, but they used to sit in the second or third row at Lourdes every 10:00 Mass—we even had their daughter in the choir for a few short weeks—and it was pretty cool to have something so close to home show up in a movie.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Change of focus
Well, not really. But I wanted to codify the purpose and focus of this blog, which, by its title…well, has no focus.
This blog is about the intersection of parenthood, writing, and faith.
Thanks to those who comment or email me so that I know you’re reading.
This blog is about the intersection of parenthood, writing, and faith.
Thanks to those who comment or email me so that I know you’re reading.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Finished!—Signed, Supermom
On Thursday night, just at dark, I finished the back yard. This was supposed to be an intensive weekend project that Christian and I would do over spring break. Instead, it rained for four weeks, and when we finally got a four-day stretch of clear weather, I just had to dig in and do it myself. Hence earning the label: “supermom.”
Well, I should qualify. I sort of did it myself. Actually, my uncle Jerome came over and spent most of two days with me. And Christian took 2 hours of it on Wednesday night so I could go lead choir practice. :)
The project involved a garden tiller, a walk-behind trencher (now THAT is a serious piece of machinery…good thing I have an uncle who can figure out and fix any piece of machinery ever invented!), 250 feet of buried corrugated pipe, a roller, an old, borrowed riding mower (which Uncle Jerome also tuned up), and a spreader full of grass seed—not to mention a lot of dug dirt and aching shoulder muscles.
My kids didn’t get much attention last week, and I did virtually zero writing of any kind. But the project is done, and we got two days of nice, gentle rain on it as soon as we finished.
And hopefully, six weeks from now, we’ll have a nice smooth back yard, without potholes or a swamp in the middle.
Well, I should qualify. I sort of did it myself. Actually, my uncle Jerome came over and spent most of two days with me. And Christian took 2 hours of it on Wednesday night so I could go lead choir practice. :)
The project involved a garden tiller, a walk-behind trencher (now THAT is a serious piece of machinery…good thing I have an uncle who can figure out and fix any piece of machinery ever invented!), 250 feet of buried corrugated pipe, a roller, an old, borrowed riding mower (which Uncle Jerome also tuned up), and a spreader full of grass seed—not to mention a lot of dug dirt and aching shoulder muscles.
My kids didn’t get much attention last week, and I did virtually zero writing of any kind. But the project is done, and we got two days of nice, gentle rain on it as soon as we finished.
And hopefully, six weeks from now, we’ll have a nice smooth back yard, without potholes or a swamp in the middle.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
It's in the genes
Alex made up his first story today.
We had just come home from the library when he padded over to me with his new books and said, “Mommy, I want to read you a story. Will you listen?”
“Of course I will!” I closed my book.
He flipped through his book and found a photo of two fire engines emerging from a fire station. “Once there was a fire engine,” he said. “Once there were two fire engines. It was getting dark. It was night. Then they all went to bed.” He finished in a whisper, then slammed the book shut. “THE END!”
We had just come home from the library when he padded over to me with his new books and said, “Mommy, I want to read you a story. Will you listen?”
“Of course I will!” I closed my book.
He flipped through his book and found a photo of two fire engines emerging from a fire station. “Once there was a fire engine,” he said. “Once there were two fire engines. It was getting dark. It was night. Then they all went to bed.” He finished in a whisper, then slammed the book shut. “THE END!”
Friday, April 11, 2008
Is this writer's block, or just procrastination?
I’m finding myself in a strange position the last few days. Strange for me, at least.
I don’t want to write. Or, more accurately: I do want to write, but I’m terrified of the project I’m working on.
As a mother, flute/voice teacher, liturgical musician, choir director, NFP teacher, composer and writer who has a new house to landscape this spring, I am very smug about never getting writer’s block. It’s a luxury that I can’t afford. In fact, I told a reporter last week that I spend all day thinking about what I’m going to work on, so when I get the time to sit down, there’s no fumbling about-—I just plunge right in.
About a month ago, I made a list of all my projects. Not the ones I want to work on (like the novel ideas or the children’s books). Just the ones I already have in process. The count was:
Nonfiction—4
Short stories—5
Novels—1
Music projects—6
Maybe this isn’t much, for a full-time writer. But with my splintered schedule, I decided that I needed to clear the plate a bit. I can’t focus on major revisions to my novel when I have fifteen other projects demanding my attention. So for the past several weeks, I’ve been a busy little bee. I’ve finished two stories, one nonfiction essay, and one piece for my “Walking in the Woods” flute & piano collection. (And submitted the prose pieces. Very important. Very time consuming.)
And now it’s time to face The Novel.
I know what I have to do to the novel, at least in general terms. The trouble is, the list is overwhelming. At least three times this week, I have pulled out the binder and begun physically trembling. So I push it away, bury it under some papers, pretend it isn’t there, and work on something else that I can still call “writing,” but which really boils down to procrastination.
At last I decided enough is enough! So I sat down on my deck, put a sticky note on the binder and began breaking the job down into small tasks. First: merge all the comments from critique partners into one MS. (Whew! Start with something fairly brainless.) Second: title the chapters. (Oh yes, this is procrastination.) Third, figure out what to do with those pesky in-laws who aren’t important to the story, but should be. Fourth: resolve the hero’s brother subplot…
And now I have a list of eleven jobs, relatively small, all of them involving brainstorming rather than typing. As a bonus, I got a whirlwind tour of my novel, re-familiarizing myself with the characters and events. The cogs have begun turning again, slowly but surely. Today when I sat down to begin, I still got a little trembly, but now at least, I have a list. And I can cross things off, darn it. One at a time!
I don’t want to write. Or, more accurately: I do want to write, but I’m terrified of the project I’m working on.
As a mother, flute/voice teacher, liturgical musician, choir director, NFP teacher, composer and writer who has a new house to landscape this spring, I am very smug about never getting writer’s block. It’s a luxury that I can’t afford. In fact, I told a reporter last week that I spend all day thinking about what I’m going to work on, so when I get the time to sit down, there’s no fumbling about-—I just plunge right in.
About a month ago, I made a list of all my projects. Not the ones I want to work on (like the novel ideas or the children’s books). Just the ones I already have in process. The count was:
Nonfiction—4
Short stories—5
Novels—1
Music projects—6
Maybe this isn’t much, for a full-time writer. But with my splintered schedule, I decided that I needed to clear the plate a bit. I can’t focus on major revisions to my novel when I have fifteen other projects demanding my attention. So for the past several weeks, I’ve been a busy little bee. I’ve finished two stories, one nonfiction essay, and one piece for my “Walking in the Woods” flute & piano collection. (And submitted the prose pieces. Very important. Very time consuming.)
And now it’s time to face The Novel.
I know what I have to do to the novel, at least in general terms. The trouble is, the list is overwhelming. At least three times this week, I have pulled out the binder and begun physically trembling. So I push it away, bury it under some papers, pretend it isn’t there, and work on something else that I can still call “writing,” but which really boils down to procrastination.
At last I decided enough is enough! So I sat down on my deck, put a sticky note on the binder and began breaking the job down into small tasks. First: merge all the comments from critique partners into one MS. (Whew! Start with something fairly brainless.) Second: title the chapters. (Oh yes, this is procrastination.) Third, figure out what to do with those pesky in-laws who aren’t important to the story, but should be. Fourth: resolve the hero’s brother subplot…
And now I have a list of eleven jobs, relatively small, all of them involving brainstorming rather than typing. As a bonus, I got a whirlwind tour of my novel, re-familiarizing myself with the characters and events. The cogs have begun turning again, slowly but surely. Today when I sat down to begin, I still got a little trembly, but now at least, I have a list. And I can cross things off, darn it. One at a time!
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Rejoicing and Rejection
Part A: Rejoicing
Yesterday as the kids were playing in the living room, Alex suddenly shrieked, “Mommy! Mommy! Juweenanna just sat up ALL BY HERSELF!”
Later in the day, I witnessed it myself. And when I put her to bed for the night, she woke up and began howling with predictable outrage. When I came in to comfort her a few minutes later, she was sitting up in her crib, absolutely furious. And this morning Christian went in to get her up and found her sitting up, too.
We have decided to set very narrow goals, and to hit them one at a time. Transition to sitting was the first. It took two weeks. The next one, we have decided, is crawling. I think it’ll take longer than two weeks, though. Nonetheless, it was a very good day.
Part B: Of Rejections
Two weeks ago (more or less), I sent a story off to the Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy. Yesterday I got a short rejection letter in the mail. The editor said it “didn’t interest him.”
OUCH.
Christian laughed at me. Not to be mean, but just b/c he never did "get" this story. --much like 4 other people who have critiqued it. Their words, not mine. But I have faith in my story. Thus, I was kind of offended that someone had the gall to say it “didn’t interest them.” Offended, and hurt, and laughing at myself for being so. Trying to focus on the positive, which is that the rejection was very quick! How can I complain?
Marketing is the pits.
And I don’t feel like writing anymore today. I feel like scrapbooking. So I think I will.
Yesterday as the kids were playing in the living room, Alex suddenly shrieked, “Mommy! Mommy! Juweenanna just sat up ALL BY HERSELF!”
Later in the day, I witnessed it myself. And when I put her to bed for the night, she woke up and began howling with predictable outrage. When I came in to comfort her a few minutes later, she was sitting up in her crib, absolutely furious. And this morning Christian went in to get her up and found her sitting up, too.
We have decided to set very narrow goals, and to hit them one at a time. Transition to sitting was the first. It took two weeks. The next one, we have decided, is crawling. I think it’ll take longer than two weeks, though. Nonetheless, it was a very good day.
Part B: Of Rejections
Two weeks ago (more or less), I sent a story off to the Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy. Yesterday I got a short rejection letter in the mail. The editor said it “didn’t interest him.”
OUCH.
Christian laughed at me. Not to be mean, but just b/c he never did "get" this story. --much like 4 other people who have critiqued it. Their words, not mine. But I have faith in my story. Thus, I was kind of offended that someone had the gall to say it “didn’t interest them.” Offended, and hurt, and laughing at myself for being so. Trying to focus on the positive, which is that the rejection was very quick! How can I complain?
Marketing is the pits.
And I don’t feel like writing anymore today. I feel like scrapbooking. So I think I will.
Monday, April 7, 2008
On a lighter note....
...I wanted to share a family picture. Not the most picture perfect one ever, but certainly it illustrates everything you need to know about our family. :)
More on the Bible and Literalism
Two weeks ago, I wrote a post about the Church and the seven deadly sins. I’ve been thinking about this, and I want to add to one of the points I made--namely, that you can’t read the Bible word-for-word literal. This assertion is heresy in many circles--even I cringe at putting it into black and white (or pink on pink, as the case may be). So I’d like to offer this example, to explain what I mean, and what my Church means.
Christian tells this joke that he calls “The Three Beers.” The basic story is: a man walks into a bar and orders three beers, one for him and one for each of his brothers. One day he only orders two, and people offer him condolences on losing his brother. The punch line is that “it’s Lent, and I’ve quit drinking!”
Neither Christian nor I remember where he got this joke; he thought it was so funny that he claimed it as his own, and for more than a year, he told it to EVERYONE. This means that I heard the joke something like 400 times. As unbelievable as it sounds, that number is not an exaggeration. I heard the joke at least once a day for a year, and frequently more often.
My point is this: “The Three Beers” matured in the telling. The essentials never changed--not one bit--from what you read above. But the words used, and the details of the story, did. By the time Christian had been telling the joke for 6 months, the words were virtually the same from one presentation to the next--but they were not the same as when he first heard the joke. He added dialogue, and expression, and made it his own.
The words changed--the story didn’t.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
In the Gospels, each evangelist was writing to a different audience; thus, different details were more important to one than to another. Matthew was talking to Jews, so he focused on the fulfillment of the Old Testament. Luke was writing for Gentiles. Luke’s Gospel is the only one in which the Magi appear; this was the first time God’s salvation was proclaimed to the non-Jewish world. John skips the infancy altogether and goes right to the meat of the message: the proclamation of the kingdom. He goes into great, agonizing detail about the Passion, death and resurrection of Christ.
This does not make one of them more true than another. But if you try to read the Bible word-for-word--even assuming that you could somehow surmount the translation of a translation of a translation problem--you find literal contradictions. Did Mary Magdalene, alone, see the stone rolled back and run back to tell Peter that someone had stolen the body? (John 20) Or was it Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James, and did they have a conversation with the angels first, so that they went back and told Peter that “He is risen!” (Luke 24)
Does it matter? No. Either way, the essential story remains the same. But this illustrates that context is important, as is an understanding of the literary forms used in the Bible.
Christian tells this joke that he calls “The Three Beers.” The basic story is: a man walks into a bar and orders three beers, one for him and one for each of his brothers. One day he only orders two, and people offer him condolences on losing his brother. The punch line is that “it’s Lent, and I’ve quit drinking!”
Neither Christian nor I remember where he got this joke; he thought it was so funny that he claimed it as his own, and for more than a year, he told it to EVERYONE. This means that I heard the joke something like 400 times. As unbelievable as it sounds, that number is not an exaggeration. I heard the joke at least once a day for a year, and frequently more often.
My point is this: “The Three Beers” matured in the telling. The essentials never changed--not one bit--from what you read above. But the words used, and the details of the story, did. By the time Christian had been telling the joke for 6 months, the words were virtually the same from one presentation to the next--but they were not the same as when he first heard the joke. He added dialogue, and expression, and made it his own.
The words changed--the story didn’t.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
In the Gospels, each evangelist was writing to a different audience; thus, different details were more important to one than to another. Matthew was talking to Jews, so he focused on the fulfillment of the Old Testament. Luke was writing for Gentiles. Luke’s Gospel is the only one in which the Magi appear; this was the first time God’s salvation was proclaimed to the non-Jewish world. John skips the infancy altogether and goes right to the meat of the message: the proclamation of the kingdom. He goes into great, agonizing detail about the Passion, death and resurrection of Christ.
This does not make one of them more true than another. But if you try to read the Bible word-for-word--even assuming that you could somehow surmount the translation of a translation of a translation problem--you find literal contradictions. Did Mary Magdalene, alone, see the stone rolled back and run back to tell Peter that someone had stolen the body? (John 20) Or was it Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James, and did they have a conversation with the angels first, so that they went back and told Peter that “He is risen!” (Luke 24)
Does it matter? No. Either way, the essential story remains the same. But this illustrates that context is important, as is an understanding of the literary forms used in the Bible.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Tiger Terror
Two days ago, Alex, fearless explorer, discovered tigers in his bedroom. And although tigers are funny, fascinating creatures during the day, at night they are terrifying—or at least, an excuse to stay up later. Consequently, we have added a new dimension to the bedtime routine. I have taken to opening drawers and doors, lassoing tigers and shooing them out the door and back to Africa, where they belong.
My children put their heads together sometime about 10 days ago and concocted an evil plan to shred Mommy’s nerves. The conversation went something like this:
Alex: “OK, Juweenanna, I’ll get scared of tigers and make Mommy sleep with me. Then you wake up 4 times a night for no reason at all, okay?”
Julianna: “Eehheeeeeheee! AAAAAAAAA!”
Alex: “Great. Then I’ll wet the bed every night, so Mommy and Daddy go crazy wondering why I’m not toilet trained anymore. And when it’s Daddy’s night to get up with us, you sleep straight through. You only get up on MOMMY’S nights. Understand?”
Julianna: “EEAAAAAAAaaaaAAAAaaaaAAAAaaa!” (I know she bounced while she said it.)
Thus are the most insidious conspiracies born.
I can laugh about this today because last night, they actually both slept through the night—and so did I. For the first time in two weeks.
My children put their heads together sometime about 10 days ago and concocted an evil plan to shred Mommy’s nerves. The conversation went something like this:
Alex: “OK, Juweenanna, I’ll get scared of tigers and make Mommy sleep with me. Then you wake up 4 times a night for no reason at all, okay?”
Julianna: “Eehheeeeeheee! AAAAAAAAA!”
Alex: “Great. Then I’ll wet the bed every night, so Mommy and Daddy go crazy wondering why I’m not toilet trained anymore. And when it’s Daddy’s night to get up with us, you sleep straight through. You only get up on MOMMY’S nights. Understand?”
Julianna: “EEAAAAAAAaaaaAAAAaaaaAAAAaaa!” (I know she bounced while she said it.)
Thus are the most insidious conspiracies born.
I can laugh about this today because last night, they actually both slept through the night—and so did I. For the first time in two weeks.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Submissions and baby development (not related)
The last week has been a real zoo…stomach virus, Triduum, no sleep for three nights out of four…so I haven’t done much writing in the last week. Today, however, I managed to put together two short story submissions.
It never ceases to amaze me how long it takes to get a submission ready—music, fiction or nonfiction. Even a query letter, for Heavens sake. First, get it written. (Weeks. Months.) Second: market research. (At least two full mornings. If you count the internet research, call it two full days.) Third: rewrite based on what you decide on market. (One day, usually.) Fourth: format submission (two days in and of itself, so far. Maybe that will shorten up as I get more experienced.)
Tomorrow’s task: the Post Office.
But tonight, I intended to write about Julianna’s development. In my kids’ scrapbooks, I do a series of 6 pages on their development through the first twelve months. There are 2-4 pictures per page and a lot of cramped writing, in which I detail ad nauseum every new skill.
However, Julianna’s first year ended before she did an awful lot of things that I am desperate to chronicle. So I think I’ll torture you all (however many or few of you there are) with them instead.
For instance, in the last couple of weeks, Julianna has become much harder to keep entertained. For a child with Down’s, she has always been interested in the world, but lately she demands to be entertained, her perspective changed; she demands interaction much more often and for longer periods of time. This afternoon, I had her on my hip as I was trying to do household tasks. I had forgotten doing that with Alex. He found it all incredibly interesting, when he was 8 months to…well, he still does; it’s just that now he can go pull a chair over and see what I’m doing for himself.
Today, Julianna lunged forward, wrapping both hands around the lip of the washing machine and resting her chin on them, as I added detergent to the washer and started the diapers. (Imagine having your head in *that* smell. Whew!) Tonight I sat down to read her one or two books—she sits with me all the time while I read to Alex, but those books are way over her head. So tonight I wanted to do it just for her. She shrieked when I set her down—she thought I was getting ready to leave her again. But when she saw the book, she settled down immediately. She lunged right and reached with her left hand to turn the pages of “I Am A Bunny” by Ole Risom/Richard Scarry. And then she was so mesmerized by “Brown Bear” that I had to keep reading. We went through 7 books before we quit.
I keep getting complacent, and forgetting that Julianna is moving beyond what Christian calls the “blob” stage. She’s so slow to move that I just forget, even though I know better.
And now it’s 9:08 p.m., and Christian and I have a date to practice flute and piano together, so I must quit without revising, or waxing eloquent anymore. Your loss. ;)
It never ceases to amaze me how long it takes to get a submission ready—music, fiction or nonfiction. Even a query letter, for Heavens sake. First, get it written. (Weeks. Months.) Second: market research. (At least two full mornings. If you count the internet research, call it two full days.) Third: rewrite based on what you decide on market. (One day, usually.) Fourth: format submission (two days in and of itself, so far. Maybe that will shorten up as I get more experienced.)
Tomorrow’s task: the Post Office.
But tonight, I intended to write about Julianna’s development. In my kids’ scrapbooks, I do a series of 6 pages on their development through the first twelve months. There are 2-4 pictures per page and a lot of cramped writing, in which I detail ad nauseum every new skill.
However, Julianna’s first year ended before she did an awful lot of things that I am desperate to chronicle. So I think I’ll torture you all (however many or few of you there are) with them instead.
For instance, in the last couple of weeks, Julianna has become much harder to keep entertained. For a child with Down’s, she has always been interested in the world, but lately she demands to be entertained, her perspective changed; she demands interaction much more often and for longer periods of time. This afternoon, I had her on my hip as I was trying to do household tasks. I had forgotten doing that with Alex. He found it all incredibly interesting, when he was 8 months to…well, he still does; it’s just that now he can go pull a chair over and see what I’m doing for himself.
Today, Julianna lunged forward, wrapping both hands around the lip of the washing machine and resting her chin on them, as I added detergent to the washer and started the diapers. (Imagine having your head in *that* smell. Whew!) Tonight I sat down to read her one or two books—she sits with me all the time while I read to Alex, but those books are way over her head. So tonight I wanted to do it just for her. She shrieked when I set her down—she thought I was getting ready to leave her again. But when she saw the book, she settled down immediately. She lunged right and reached with her left hand to turn the pages of “I Am A Bunny” by Ole Risom/Richard Scarry. And then she was so mesmerized by “Brown Bear” that I had to keep reading. We went through 7 books before we quit.
I keep getting complacent, and forgetting that Julianna is moving beyond what Christian calls the “blob” stage. She’s so slow to move that I just forget, even though I know better.
And now it’s 9:08 p.m., and Christian and I have a date to practice flute and piano together, so I must quit without revising, or waxing eloquent anymore. Your loss. ;)
Monday, March 17, 2008
Stirring up the pot for Holy Week
Last week, there was a big story (quickly shoved to second place by yet another sex scandal) about the Vatican “updating the seven deadly sins” for the modern age. I read the article from the first link I was sent, and then made the mistake of reading some of the comments. They were sarcastic, withering, and dismissive, and they came from atheists, Bible Christians and everyone in between.
I had to remind myself that the Catholic Church is a big target—the single biggest religious target out there. Still, it baffled me then, and it baffles me now, how anyone can object to what was published in L’Osservatore Romano. Bishop Gianfranco Girotti emphasized that sin is not just an offense between you and God; it has social and global ramifications. Who can argue with that?
The Church’s trouble is that its teachings, its structure, are very complex, and today’s world is all about oversimplification—about sound bytes. Facts are only significant in total context. They cannot be understood in a 7-second sound byte.
That’s not to say that the Church is perfect. It is a human institution, divinely inspired, but as long as people are involved, there will always be problems. But the nature of contemporary society is that you’re always making value judgments without knowing all the context. Even all the facts.
But what I love about my Church is the way that it is so radical in telling off both sides of the political spectrum. For instance:
--Genetic research. Abortion. Belittling the sexual act (by contraception, extra-marital sex, divorce)—the favorite targets of the right.
--Pollution. Greed. War.—the favorite targets of the left.
To the Church’s anti-religious detractors, I ask: Are not all human political and social issues based on a fundamental respect for the human person? Are not all those issues connected? Are they not, in fact, all the same issue? What in this list of sins do you see that is contrary to a fundamental respect for the human person?
To the Church’s fundamentalist Christian detractors, I ask: Which came first—the Church or the Bible? The stories in the Pentateuch were told around fires generation after generation before they were ever written down. Haven’t you ever played “telephone”? How can you espouse a word-for-word literal understanding of a book that has been translated from Hebrew to Greek, to Latin, to German, to English, to newer English, to newer English, and always by people with their own agendas and biases….need I go on? Tradition created the Bible. Inspired by God? Yes. True? Yes. But written word for word by a cosmic hand? No.
One last point to make. The article I read never listed the new seven deadly sins—my guess is because they knew the list hit too close to the mark. Instead, they finished up with a list of the original seven deadly sins “and their punishments,” drawn from “The Picture Book of Devils, Demons, and Witchcraft.” In some ways that offended me most of all. How was that even relevant? It only served to make the Church look ridiculous. It is as if there is a rule among journalists that no respect can be shown for an institution that does great good in the world.
And there I will stop for tonight.
I had to remind myself that the Catholic Church is a big target—the single biggest religious target out there. Still, it baffled me then, and it baffles me now, how anyone can object to what was published in L’Osservatore Romano. Bishop Gianfranco Girotti emphasized that sin is not just an offense between you and God; it has social and global ramifications. Who can argue with that?
The Church’s trouble is that its teachings, its structure, are very complex, and today’s world is all about oversimplification—about sound bytes. Facts are only significant in total context. They cannot be understood in a 7-second sound byte.
That’s not to say that the Church is perfect. It is a human institution, divinely inspired, but as long as people are involved, there will always be problems. But the nature of contemporary society is that you’re always making value judgments without knowing all the context. Even all the facts.
But what I love about my Church is the way that it is so radical in telling off both sides of the political spectrum. For instance:
--Genetic research. Abortion. Belittling the sexual act (by contraception, extra-marital sex, divorce)—the favorite targets of the right.
--Pollution. Greed. War.—the favorite targets of the left.
To the Church’s anti-religious detractors, I ask: Are not all human political and social issues based on a fundamental respect for the human person? Are not all those issues connected? Are they not, in fact, all the same issue? What in this list of sins do you see that is contrary to a fundamental respect for the human person?
To the Church’s fundamentalist Christian detractors, I ask: Which came first—the Church or the Bible? The stories in the Pentateuch were told around fires generation after generation before they were ever written down. Haven’t you ever played “telephone”? How can you espouse a word-for-word literal understanding of a book that has been translated from Hebrew to Greek, to Latin, to German, to English, to newer English, to newer English, and always by people with their own agendas and biases….need I go on? Tradition created the Bible. Inspired by God? Yes. True? Yes. But written word for word by a cosmic hand? No.
One last point to make. The article I read never listed the new seven deadly sins—my guess is because they knew the list hit too close to the mark. Instead, they finished up with a list of the original seven deadly sins “and their punishments,” drawn from “The Picture Book of Devils, Demons, and Witchcraft.” In some ways that offended me most of all. How was that even relevant? It only served to make the Church look ridiculous. It is as if there is a rule among journalists that no respect can be shown for an institution that does great good in the world.
And there I will stop for tonight.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Snapshot
When Julianna was born, it didn’t take long for us to understand that her development was going to lag, and that there was no way to predict by how much. Thirteen and a half months later, we still don’t have a very clear idea. However, I’d like to share with my family and friends what “developmental delays” mean for us.
I’ll start with Alex, because his development is like that of most other children. From the day he was born, he began changing. Changing the way he looked, the way he acted, the skills he was able to perform. I spent his babyhood expecting to see changes from week to week, and sometimes from day to day. He learned to sit up, and three days later he was pushing up into sitting. Crawling took a lot longer, but the minor steps on the way to crawling happened at regular intervals.
Today, that pattern continues. Every day he does something new, even if it’s as simple as picking up on one of Christian’s or my mannerisms. (“Awk!”, which I have come to realize is a supremely Midwestern corruption of the supremely German "Ach," is killingly funny, as is “That’s cool!”) Alex’s level of development, therefore, was and is a constantly shifting paradigm.
By contrast, Julianna has to be guided/manipulated/forced into every new thing—well, the major ones, at least. Once in a while she surprises me with some new skill or some new evidence of understanding—the most recent being the “honk the nose” game, which my dad invented when Alex was a baby. But basically, we have to take her to the next developmental level. We took her hand and guided it to the toys. Then we took her hand and guided it to the food—which she wasn’t looking at. Then we pounded on the tray to get her to look down. And even with those baby steps, it took months. If we don’t take the lead, she doesn’t particularly change at all. Until she does. There have been two times in her life when she suddenly did a whole bunch of developing all at once. Those are good times.
But in between, long months go by in which I am waiting for the next milestone… and she stays basically the same. It’s easy to take a snapshot and say that my 13-month-old is functioning at about an 8-month level. It’s much harder to communicate the experience of what those 13 months were like. At some point, my expectations shut down. Not entirely, of course. Gerti, our PT, tells me that I still have high expectations for Julianna—but to me, my expectations are so miniscule as to be not worth mentioning. They involve such basic things. Like being able to crawl, feed herself, and walk, so that we can try to have another baby.
It’s exhausting to spin out the implications. What if I forget to teach her something? Is she going to have the natural curiosity that allows Alex to rocket from one level of understanding to the next? My rational brain (objective) tells me that she will do it all, it’s just going to take longer.
My experiential self, however, sees an unending babyhood. It’s not that I don’t believe she’ll develop; it’s that I don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s like being on a railroad track without a map, and you have no idea where the next station is, or how long it’s going to take to get there. And meanwhile, you can’t particularly do anything. You can’t get off, you can’t make plans for sightseeing at the other end—you just have to wait. And what happens when you need to use the bathroom???? :)
Anyway, on paper (or online) it looks very depressing. And I can’t deny that it is disheartening. But I’m not blogging to create a big pity party. Rather, I want to share the experience with my loved ones and anyone else who happens upon this, to give you some sort of idea, in the name of empathy.
Because she really is the sweetest part of my life.
I’ll start with Alex, because his development is like that of most other children. From the day he was born, he began changing. Changing the way he looked, the way he acted, the skills he was able to perform. I spent his babyhood expecting to see changes from week to week, and sometimes from day to day. He learned to sit up, and three days later he was pushing up into sitting. Crawling took a lot longer, but the minor steps on the way to crawling happened at regular intervals.
Today, that pattern continues. Every day he does something new, even if it’s as simple as picking up on one of Christian’s or my mannerisms. (“Awk!”, which I have come to realize is a supremely Midwestern corruption of the supremely German "Ach," is killingly funny, as is “That’s cool!”) Alex’s level of development, therefore, was and is a constantly shifting paradigm.
By contrast, Julianna has to be guided/manipulated/forced into every new thing—well, the major ones, at least. Once in a while she surprises me with some new skill or some new evidence of understanding—the most recent being the “honk the nose” game, which my dad invented when Alex was a baby. But basically, we have to take her to the next developmental level. We took her hand and guided it to the toys. Then we took her hand and guided it to the food—which she wasn’t looking at. Then we pounded on the tray to get her to look down. And even with those baby steps, it took months. If we don’t take the lead, she doesn’t particularly change at all. Until she does. There have been two times in her life when she suddenly did a whole bunch of developing all at once. Those are good times.
But in between, long months go by in which I am waiting for the next milestone… and she stays basically the same. It’s easy to take a snapshot and say that my 13-month-old is functioning at about an 8-month level. It’s much harder to communicate the experience of what those 13 months were like. At some point, my expectations shut down. Not entirely, of course. Gerti, our PT, tells me that I still have high expectations for Julianna—but to me, my expectations are so miniscule as to be not worth mentioning. They involve such basic things. Like being able to crawl, feed herself, and walk, so that we can try to have another baby.
It’s exhausting to spin out the implications. What if I forget to teach her something? Is she going to have the natural curiosity that allows Alex to rocket from one level of understanding to the next? My rational brain (objective) tells me that she will do it all, it’s just going to take longer.
My experiential self, however, sees an unending babyhood. It’s not that I don’t believe she’ll develop; it’s that I don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s like being on a railroad track without a map, and you have no idea where the next station is, or how long it’s going to take to get there. And meanwhile, you can’t particularly do anything. You can’t get off, you can’t make plans for sightseeing at the other end—you just have to wait. And what happens when you need to use the bathroom???? :)
Anyway, on paper (or online) it looks very depressing. And I can’t deny that it is disheartening. But I’m not blogging to create a big pity party. Rather, I want to share the experience with my loved ones and anyone else who happens upon this, to give you some sort of idea, in the name of empathy.
Because she really is the sweetest part of my life.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Publicity, Round 2
This was posted this morning on the Columbia Daily Tribune website:
http://www.columbiatribune.com/2008/Mar/20080308Feat001.asp
http://www.columbiatribune.com/2008/Mar/20080308Feat001.asp
Monday, March 3, 2008
Baby/toddler moments du jour
Scene: Basi home. Alex comes up the stairs, burdened down by a drum (IOW, a Tinker Toy cannister.) He looks straight at me and says, "Mommy, are you gone?"
I look up from the computer. Eye contact. "No, honey, I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere tonight."
"Okay, I just wanted to make sure you weren't gone."
HAHAHA!
Scene: Morning, about 8:15 a.m. We are looking at the wedding album. "Who is that?"
"That's great-grandma Papadopoli," I say.
"Great-grandma Papawy Dapawy?"
Julianna is very giggly today. Have I ever mentioned that I am completely, hopelessly, helplessly addicted to her laugh? Especially since she guards her giggles. Alex has always been a laughy-taffy kid. Giggles at the drop of a... well, a pin head, much less a hat. So today, she giggles because I look funny when I'm feeding her. She giggles when I laugh. She giggles when I tickle or chew (and she is very chewy). She is reaching out and grabbing life by the bongos/Mardi Gras beads/ drums/scrap paper/brother. (She's very into noses at the moment.)
And she's stubborn as anything. She'll stand (knees locked), but she WILL NOT go on all fours. Steadfastly refuses.
Ah well, just a little slice of Basi life. I was reading over an NFP recertification course when Alex came to ask me if I was gone, and I had to stop and share.
I look up from the computer. Eye contact. "No, honey, I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere tonight."
"Okay, I just wanted to make sure you weren't gone."
HAHAHA!
Scene: Morning, about 8:15 a.m. We are looking at the wedding album. "Who is that?"
"That's great-grandma Papadopoli," I say.
"Great-grandma Papawy Dapawy?"
Julianna is very giggly today. Have I ever mentioned that I am completely, hopelessly, helplessly addicted to her laugh? Especially since she guards her giggles. Alex has always been a laughy-taffy kid. Giggles at the drop of a... well, a pin head, much less a hat. So today, she giggles because I look funny when I'm feeding her. She giggles when I laugh. She giggles when I tickle or chew (and she is very chewy). She is reaching out and grabbing life by the bongos/Mardi Gras beads/ drums/scrap paper/brother. (She's very into noses at the moment.)
And she's stubborn as anything. She'll stand (knees locked), but she WILL NOT go on all fours. Steadfastly refuses.
Ah well, just a little slice of Basi life. I was reading over an NFP recertification course when Alex came to ask me if I was gone, and I had to stop and share.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Don Music
There’s a clip on an old Sesame Street video that we’ve been watching with Alex. In it, Don Music is sitting at the piano, trying to write “Mary had a little lamb.”
“Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to…to…to…”
With a deafening cluster chord, Don Music flings his head down on the keyboard and wails, “Oh, I’ll NEVER get it!”
Every time he sees this, Christian roars with laughter. Then he turns to me and says, “Look! It’s Kate!”
Fine. I have a melodramatic side. So sue me.
I got my second short story rejection in two weeks yesterday. And although I’m considerably more mature about it than Don Music, I am fighting the same voice of gloom and doom. It’s ridiculous, but it’s true. The process of breaking into the fiction market seems so overwhelming. Even more so because “The Beggar’s Queen” was so easy a process. I spend hours doing market research, but what I end up doing is ruling out every single magazine, because none of them have already published a story about a farm wife who chases a rooster in the middle of the night. And of course, if they had published it, it would still be pointless to send it, because why would they want two?
In a day or two I’ll set aside my self-loathing and I’ll send it out again.
Unless I decide to do a major rewrite, of course.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Composing the seasons/publicity
It's an oddity of writing that in the gray, purple heart of Lent I am hard at work on Christmas pieces.
During Advent I got the idea to write a collection of Christmas carol arrangements. However, being overburdened with time (HA!), I managed to complete exactly one, and that one not until after we had taken down the Christmas tree--mind you, we leave our tree up all the way through Epiphany.
Now I'm setting a goal of writing one every other month for a year. That way I'll have my collection ready by next Christmas. Ready to play, anyway.
Incidentally, we now have copies in hand of "Times and Seasons" for flute/piano (GIA)and "Go In Peace" for assembly use (WLP). I have to admit, when I saw my name on the covers of those two publications, it actually took my breath away for a moment--cliche as that sounds. It was akin to holding your baby for the first time. You know a lot about the baby before it gets here--but there's nothing quite like that first sight, that first touch.
Christian is a superb publicist. He has gotten me in the newspaper. Technically, that will be next weekend, but we've done the interview already.
I'm doing a lot more publicity for my music than I did for "The Beggar's Queen." I'm in my element here--I sound intelligent when I talk about music. And I know a whole lot more people, so I've been able to send emails around the country. Whether that makes a difference in sales remains to be seen.
During Advent I got the idea to write a collection of Christmas carol arrangements. However, being overburdened with time (HA!), I managed to complete exactly one, and that one not until after we had taken down the Christmas tree--mind you, we leave our tree up all the way through Epiphany.
Now I'm setting a goal of writing one every other month for a year. That way I'll have my collection ready by next Christmas. Ready to play, anyway.
Incidentally, we now have copies in hand of "Times and Seasons" for flute/piano (GIA)and "Go In Peace" for assembly use (WLP). I have to admit, when I saw my name on the covers of those two publications, it actually took my breath away for a moment--cliche as that sounds. It was akin to holding your baby for the first time. You know a lot about the baby before it gets here--but there's nothing quite like that first sight, that first touch.
Christian is a superb publicist. He has gotten me in the newspaper. Technically, that will be next weekend, but we've done the interview already.
I'm doing a lot more publicity for my music than I did for "The Beggar's Queen." I'm in my element here--I sound intelligent when I talk about music. And I know a whole lot more people, so I've been able to send emails around the country. Whether that makes a difference in sales remains to be seen.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Spring?
It is the 23rd of February and I don't think it's gotten above freezing for over a week. The "normal" high for this time of the year is about 45 degrees in mid-Missouri. I'm getting seriously stir-crazy. Especially since I've been confined to home with two very small children for most of the last 3 days because of ice, sleet, and oh, a dusting of snow, not enough to go sledding.
And yet yesterday when I went to get the mail, I heard spring birds. Lots of them. I stopped in the driveway and listened for a few seconds as my whole body seemed to take a breath and relax.
Any day now, God. Any day.
And yet yesterday when I went to get the mail, I heard spring birds. Lots of them. I stopped in the driveway and listened for a few seconds as my whole body seemed to take a breath and relax.
Any day now, God. Any day.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
And as long as I'm posting...
I have been entirely too gloom and doom lately about my daughter's development or lack thereof.
Julianna is doing great. Over the weekend she learned to play peekaboo and scoot herself backward on the Pergo, and last night at dinner she nonchalantly popped a piece of chicken into her mouth while we weren't paying attention. Stinker, she knows exactly what to do, she just doesn't want to do it yet!
Yes, dear heart, you are a stinker. But I love you madly anyway.
P.S. In "Dear Annie" two nights ago, Christian found a letter from somebody who was uncomfortable around a customer with a "mental disability." "Annie" told them that his touchy-feely flirting was part of his "illness." Christian just about went through the roof. I told him it wasn't worth writing to them about, anyway. But now I'm wondering.
Julianna is doing great. Over the weekend she learned to play peekaboo and scoot herself backward on the Pergo, and last night at dinner she nonchalantly popped a piece of chicken into her mouth while we weren't paying attention. Stinker, she knows exactly what to do, she just doesn't want to do it yet!
Yes, dear heart, you are a stinker. But I love you madly anyway.
P.S. In "Dear Annie" two nights ago, Christian found a letter from somebody who was uncomfortable around a customer with a "mental disability." "Annie" told them that his touchy-feely flirting was part of his "illness." Christian just about went through the roof. I told him it wasn't worth writing to them about, anyway. But now I'm wondering.
For liberals and conservatives, in an election year
This is a really thoughtful column on the strengths and weaknesses of liberalism and conservatism--particularly within the Catholic Church, but I think that the lessons apply much more broadly. It is long, but if you can take the time I think you'll find it worthwhile.
I'd post the entire text, but I'm not sure that's legal, so I shall err on the side of caution and simply give you the web page, which I think you'll have to cut and paste, unfortunately:
http://uscatholic.claretians.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=12107&news_iv_ctrl=0&abbr=usc_
I'd post the entire text, but I'm not sure that's legal, so I shall err on the side of caution and simply give you the web page, which I think you'll have to cut and paste, unfortunately:
http://uscatholic.claretians.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=12107&news_iv_ctrl=0&abbr=usc_
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Of Julianna, and planning for the third
Lately we've been discussing how long to wait before we try to conceive again. I'm 33--no great age, but my mother had her last at 33, so it's on my mind. Because I'll be having a C-section, Julianna has to be able to walk before the next baby comes. At 6 months, when she was sitting up, we were sure that she was going to be close to walking by a year.
And of course, she's not even crawling. In fact, she's not even transitioning into and out of sitting. (Actually, she started this weekend. She had a good developmental weekend.)
So now I wonder if our plans for a baby a year or so from now are too optimistic. And in my fears, I also realize that I'm harboring deep fear, insecurity and guilt. I am the primary "therapist" in the family, and I feel like I don't do enough work with her. So I think it's my fault that she's not developing more quickly.
This entry is not coming together well, so I think I'll err on the short side. A wonderful man at church this morning told me that God would provide. And he can say that, because he has a child with DS who is 1 year and 2 weeks older than her younger sister.
Easy to view from the outside--now that both of his kids are grown.
Harder to imagine trying to live through.
Cute almost-three-year-old moments of the week
--"Mommy, did God gave you an Alex to chew on?"
(These kids do pick up on the littlest things we ever say! ;) )
--"Our Fadder, who art in Heaven, hawowed our, be, howowed be our name. Mommy, why do we say daily bread?"
(Because that's how we ask God for all the things we need. Like our food...)
"Like 'teak and peas and peaches and ah-keem and aca-oni keez?"
(Yes, like those. And a place to sleep, and clothes to wear, and...)
"And someone to wuv us!"
(I love being this kid's mommy. Sniff sniff.)
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Small triumphs
This morning, Julianna grabbed a cloth napkin from the table beside her and proceeded to play peekaboo for 15 minutes.
A small triumph, to be sure, but a triumph nonetheless!
A small triumph, to be sure, but a triumph nonetheless!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Trees and Trash
I just joined the Arbor Day Foundation.
Did you know you can get 10 trees for a max of $15? OK, so they're twigs. So what? Join them already! www.arborday.org Then you get other trees (not twigs) for next to nothing compared to going to the store--any store. I'm going to buy nine trees for less than the cost of two at Lowe's.
Did you know that the aspen tree actually grows in central Missouri? (According to Arbor Day, anyway.) I'm so pumped. It'll be like a little bit of Colorado in my back yard. Assuming I can keep them alive, of course. :)
I'm very excited about planting trees.
And this weekend Christian and I went down to the creek--which is nothing more glorious than a stormwater drain--and cleaned up trash behind our property. It was awful how much there was, really. Most of it washed downstream from the streets, but even so. And the other day, I was sitting in line at the traffic light when I actually *saw* someone open their door and drop a styrofoam cup on the ground.
Who are you people? And how can you go through your life without ever once thinking, "Duh, maybe this is not a good idea!"??????
Didn't your parents teach you better than that?
Did you know you can get 10 trees for a max of $15? OK, so they're twigs. So what? Join them already! www.arborday.org Then you get other trees (not twigs) for next to nothing compared to going to the store--any store. I'm going to buy nine trees for less than the cost of two at Lowe's.
Did you know that the aspen tree actually grows in central Missouri? (According to Arbor Day, anyway.) I'm so pumped. It'll be like a little bit of Colorado in my back yard. Assuming I can keep them alive, of course. :)
I'm very excited about planting trees.
And this weekend Christian and I went down to the creek--which is nothing more glorious than a stormwater drain--and cleaned up trash behind our property. It was awful how much there was, really. Most of it washed downstream from the streets, but even so. And the other day, I was sitting in line at the traffic light when I actually *saw* someone open their door and drop a styrofoam cup on the ground.
Who are you people? And how can you go through your life without ever once thinking, "Duh, maybe this is not a good idea!"??????
Didn't your parents teach you better than that?
Friday, February 8, 2008
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Pink Cake
My mother-in-law and I spent last evening decorating a "1-2-3-4" cake filled with chocolate and cream cheese and frosted with pink cream cheese frosting.
Today is the big day. Feb. 2. Groundhog day, or, for the Catholic nerds among us, The Feast of the Presentation. Julianna's first birthday.
She celebrated her birthday by waking at midnight (I kid you not) and whining. Since we got to bed at 11:30, I was not happy about it. Fortunately, by the time I used the bathroom and got ready to go over, she'd whined herself back to sleep. But she woke up again at 3:30, which is both worse and better than the time she's been waking up to nurse lately (4:30)--worse b/c I had only been asleep for 2 hours; better b/c it was early enough that I could still go back to sleep, which is not the case at 4:30.
We nursed, and I went back to bed. And a while later I heard Alex whining, and thank God, then I heard Christian already over there dealing with him. I was exhausted--since I've been getting up at 4:30 every morning for a week--so I just let him deal with it.
And now, at 7:30, Julianna is sitting on my lap, little cranky birthday girl with a cold.
And Tom over at narrowridge.blogspot.com wrote about his 5 month-old son's likes and dislikes. So I shall do the same.
(There's a whole community of people talking about Down syndrome over there, BTW. Very interesting. You should check it out.)
OK. Miss Julianna Margaret Basi LIKES...
Chewing on her toes
Blowing rasberries
Miss Julianna ADORES...
* Her Mardi gras beads
* Her big brother Alex
* Mommy and Daddy--especially Daddy! (You should see her go crazy when he walks in)
* Baths (though that was long in coming--I used to have to get in and bathe with her so she didn't freak out)
* Pears, peaches, and bananas
* Lasagna--which she goes berzerk about, and won't stop shrieking till I give her another bite
* Oh, and don't forget ICE CREAM!!!!
Miss Julianna HATES...
* being cold
* being put to bed
* oh yes, sleeping during the day. She hates that.
* having her face cleaned and her gooky eye wiped
* babysitters
At the moment she's griping b/c she's lying on the floor bored, and wants Mommy to feed her her birthday breakfast. In the last two weeks we've seen marked differences in her development. She's started reaching for things--taking initiative in interfacing with her world. She wants to touch faces, grab noses, lunge and grab toys. Things I had come to believe were going to have to be taught and just barely grasped before we went on to the next developmental task, which would also have to be taught, and which she would barely grasp. Yet here they are, and again, I just have to learn to be patient.
There have been times in the last year when I have been overwhelmed by all that is to come. And not that long ago I was quite sad, deep in the midst of grieving. No doubt I'll be there again, and sooner than I would like to think about. But for now, I'm just an ordinary mom who's in a bad mood b/c I haven't had a full night's sleep in over a week.
To those just starting the DS journey, or those struggling with frustration, fear or a sense of being overwhelmed...hang in there. It'll come.
Today is the big day. Feb. 2. Groundhog day, or, for the Catholic nerds among us, The Feast of the Presentation. Julianna's first birthday.
She celebrated her birthday by waking at midnight (I kid you not) and whining. Since we got to bed at 11:30, I was not happy about it. Fortunately, by the time I used the bathroom and got ready to go over, she'd whined herself back to sleep. But she woke up again at 3:30, which is both worse and better than the time she's been waking up to nurse lately (4:30)--worse b/c I had only been asleep for 2 hours; better b/c it was early enough that I could still go back to sleep, which is not the case at 4:30.
We nursed, and I went back to bed. And a while later I heard Alex whining, and thank God, then I heard Christian already over there dealing with him. I was exhausted--since I've been getting up at 4:30 every morning for a week--so I just let him deal with it.
And now, at 7:30, Julianna is sitting on my lap, little cranky birthday girl with a cold.
And Tom over at narrowridge.blogspot.com wrote about his 5 month-old son's likes and dislikes. So I shall do the same.
(There's a whole community of people talking about Down syndrome over there, BTW. Very interesting. You should check it out.)
OK. Miss Julianna Margaret Basi LIKES...
Chewing on her toes
Blowing rasberries
Miss Julianna ADORES...
* Her Mardi gras beads
* Her big brother Alex
* Mommy and Daddy--especially Daddy! (You should see her go crazy when he walks in)
* Baths (though that was long in coming--I used to have to get in and bathe with her so she didn't freak out)
* Pears, peaches, and bananas
* Lasagna--which she goes berzerk about, and won't stop shrieking till I give her another bite
* Oh, and don't forget ICE CREAM!!!!
Miss Julianna HATES...
* being cold
* being put to bed
* oh yes, sleeping during the day. She hates that.
* having her face cleaned and her gooky eye wiped
* babysitters
At the moment she's griping b/c she's lying on the floor bored, and wants Mommy to feed her her birthday breakfast. In the last two weeks we've seen marked differences in her development. She's started reaching for things--taking initiative in interfacing with her world. She wants to touch faces, grab noses, lunge and grab toys. Things I had come to believe were going to have to be taught and just barely grasped before we went on to the next developmental task, which would also have to be taught, and which she would barely grasp. Yet here they are, and again, I just have to learn to be patient.
There have been times in the last year when I have been overwhelmed by all that is to come. And not that long ago I was quite sad, deep in the midst of grieving. No doubt I'll be there again, and sooner than I would like to think about. But for now, I'm just an ordinary mom who's in a bad mood b/c I haven't had a full night's sleep in over a week.
To those just starting the DS journey, or those struggling with frustration, fear or a sense of being overwhelmed...hang in there. It'll come.
Monday, January 28, 2008
In the Eye of the Beholder
In the Eye of the Beholder: a celebration of a year
“…no eye has ever seen any God but you doing such deeds for those who wait for him…”
Isaiah 64: 3
She’s so beautiful.
I have to be honest and admit that I have always, always been uncomfortable around people with disabilities. Afraid of their differences. For certain, I have never, ever thought of a person with a disability as beautiful. Clearly, this is one of the reasons God gave her to me.
And yet, as hard as I try—when I look at the folded ears, the wide, round eyes, the cute little tongue tip protruding—all the telltale signs that made the doctors suspect Down Syndrome at the moment of her birth… Well, I can’t see it. I have never really been able to see it.
But everybody else can see it. She and I stopped at a garage sale on Saturday (yes, in January), and the man came hurrying over to us and pressed an angel votive holder into her hands, telling me a story about a young man with DS that he helped to shave.
This is what I find really odd. I always thought I was pretty objective about things. I was and am, after all, able to admit that Julianna was not a pretty newborn AT ALL. And I really try hard to see the Down syndrome in her face—identify it, I mean, the way other people seem to be able to identify it in a glance.
But I can’t. She’s just…so…beautiful.
One of the benefits, and crosses, of having a child who’s significantly delayed is that we get an extended babyhood. She’s five days shy of a year old, and she’s more like a seven- to nine-month-old. At night when I nurse her to sleep, with her little fingers grasping my shirt, or my skin, and her feet pressing against my arm or my torso, I’m frequently overcome. That wild, fine hair, so impossible to control. The long, long eyelashes. The adorable, chewable cheeks. That little nose, that goofy grin! The length of her! Oh, my gosh, she’s so beautiful! And I thought Alex was the most beautiful baby in the world.
I mean, seriously. I know you all think you have the most beautiful children, but…I’m sorry, it’s just impossible. The world’s two most beautiful children both live under my roof. And how did I rate such a blessing?
She’s so beautiful. And she’s been with us almost a year. It’s been rough, and I wouldn’t have chosen it, and I wouldn’t choose it now, given the choice, but I also wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.
“…no eye has ever seen any God but you doing such deeds for those who wait for him…”
Isaiah 64: 3
She’s so beautiful.
I have to be honest and admit that I have always, always been uncomfortable around people with disabilities. Afraid of their differences. For certain, I have never, ever thought of a person with a disability as beautiful. Clearly, this is one of the reasons God gave her to me.
And yet, as hard as I try—when I look at the folded ears, the wide, round eyes, the cute little tongue tip protruding—all the telltale signs that made the doctors suspect Down Syndrome at the moment of her birth… Well, I can’t see it. I have never really been able to see it.
But everybody else can see it. She and I stopped at a garage sale on Saturday (yes, in January), and the man came hurrying over to us and pressed an angel votive holder into her hands, telling me a story about a young man with DS that he helped to shave.
This is what I find really odd. I always thought I was pretty objective about things. I was and am, after all, able to admit that Julianna was not a pretty newborn AT ALL. And I really try hard to see the Down syndrome in her face—identify it, I mean, the way other people seem to be able to identify it in a glance.
But I can’t. She’s just…so…beautiful.
One of the benefits, and crosses, of having a child who’s significantly delayed is that we get an extended babyhood. She’s five days shy of a year old, and she’s more like a seven- to nine-month-old. At night when I nurse her to sleep, with her little fingers grasping my shirt, or my skin, and her feet pressing against my arm or my torso, I’m frequently overcome. That wild, fine hair, so impossible to control. The long, long eyelashes. The adorable, chewable cheeks. That little nose, that goofy grin! The length of her! Oh, my gosh, she’s so beautiful! And I thought Alex was the most beautiful baby in the world.
I mean, seriously. I know you all think you have the most beautiful children, but…I’m sorry, it’s just impossible. The world’s two most beautiful children both live under my roof. And how did I rate such a blessing?
She’s so beautiful. And she’s been with us almost a year. It’s been rough, and I wouldn’t have chosen it, and I wouldn’t choose it now, given the choice, but I also wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Those moments
And then there are those moments when you shake your head in awe at the miniature people who fill your days with diapers, feedings and playtime.
The thing I love best about children is the way they laugh just because they're happy. Just because we're going to the park, or they like the food placed in front of them, or (in Julianna's case) because Mommy looked at her and smiled.
And I love the way that Alex claps his hands and says, "yay yay yay yay yay!" wiggling his bottom and his legs with excitement because I told him the phone call was from Daddy, who said he's landed in Chicago, which means he's halfway home.
"Did *we* ride two yearpanes" (that would be "airplanes") "in the 'ky, to New York?" Yes, we did, little man. Just a couple of months ago. Another giggle-wiggle: "I LOOOVE New York!"
But at the end of three days without Christian, I am filled with great sympathy and respect for single parents. I really don't know how they do it.
What do you know. Two blogs in one day.
The thing I love best about children is the way they laugh just because they're happy. Just because we're going to the park, or they like the food placed in front of them, or (in Julianna's case) because Mommy looked at her and smiled.
And I love the way that Alex claps his hands and says, "yay yay yay yay yay!" wiggling his bottom and his legs with excitement because I told him the phone call was from Daddy, who said he's landed in Chicago, which means he's halfway home.
"Did *we* ride two yearpanes" (that would be "airplanes") "in the 'ky, to New York?" Yes, we did, little man. Just a couple of months ago. Another giggle-wiggle: "I LOOOVE New York!"
But at the end of three days without Christian, I am filled with great sympathy and respect for single parents. I really don't know how they do it.
What do you know. Two blogs in one day.
Blogger Blather
They say that if you’re going to have a successful blog—one that has a devoted following—you need to post at least twice a week, and every day is better.
But I’d like to know who has time to read that much blogging? Let’s take a poll. Raise your hand if you delete every single forward you find in your inbox. Be honest now. And I’m sure you all check out every single link you get, too. And all the related links.
What I’d really like to know is how do you get people to read your blog faithfully in the first place?
If I blogged twice a week (much less every day), I’d never get any other writing done.
But then again, if that’s the case, what the heck am I doing writing a blog entry today?
It’s time to get to work, Kate!
But I’d like to know who has time to read that much blogging? Let’s take a poll. Raise your hand if you delete every single forward you find in your inbox. Be honest now. And I’m sure you all check out every single link you get, too. And all the related links.
What I’d really like to know is how do you get people to read your blog faithfully in the first place?
If I blogged twice a week (much less every day), I’d never get any other writing done.
But then again, if that’s the case, what the heck am I doing writing a blog entry today?
It’s time to get to work, Kate!
Monday, January 14, 2008
Random musings
You wouldn't know I have "so much to say" based on the frequency of my blog posts, would you?
The trouble with a blog is that many of the things on my mind I can't talk about in public. Or, at least, it would be a bad idea to talk about in public. People I'd like to rake over the coals for things they've done...the details of other people's private lives, which I have no business spreading...you know, things like that.
That's the kind of stuff on my mind lately. But since I'm bored at the moment, why not wander a bit?
My weight is up. I had returned to my prepregnancy weight on the 20th of December, when we had Shakespeare's pizza with friends from Ohio, and after that night I've never recovered.
I say that because I'm hungry right now, at 3:30 p.m.
I've been having intermittent trouble sleeping again lately. I finally decided that there is no shame in taking something to help you sleep, as long as you don't get dependent on it. So I'll allow myself a sleep aid a maximum of every other day.
That's on my mind because we rearranged our bedroom last night and I had trouble sleeping, facing a different direction. Oddly enough I don't feel too tired today, though.
We spent the entire month of December painting our living room red. Then we ran out of money, and we still don't have curtains.
I say that because from my chair at the computer, I'm staring at a very bare window. I hate Venetian blinds. Who the heck came up with those things, anyway? They're cheap, they break, they're impossible to clean, they don't block the light... I just don't get it. Christian said to me once, "Well, I grew up with wood blinds. How do you feel about wood?"
"You still have to clean them!" I told him.
I tried cleaning them a while back. I got all ambitious. It lasted through two windows. (Our house has 9.)
Then there's writing stuff on my mind. My flute collection is already available at www.giamusic.com, and they told me it's going to be featured (I think that's what they said, anyway) in the catalog which should be arriving very soon. "Go In Peace," which is a song for congregation and contemporary ensemble, is at the printer's. WLP will be sending that out in some mailing soon, too. And also with WLP I'm in the editing process with my second song, "I Rejoice."
All three of these, by the way, were accepted for publication before Alex was six months old. Now he's nearly three, and I have another child, almost a year old. It boggled my mind to think the publishing process was so long--but now I know what to expect!
I think I'm headed for music writing for a while. It goes in spurts. I do prose for a while, then I get excited about music for a while, sometimes I juggle both...but I don't have that much time. And as much as I want to be writing, it has to take third place in my priorities--#s 1 and 2 are permanently occupied by husband and kids. (Well, for the next 20 years, anyway. After that writing may move up a notch.)
I'm going through this discontent with my new novel, which seems suddenly unimportant and boring to me. I had a great idea for a new novel, which occupied all my spare waking thought and then some for about a week. But once I got it hashed out on computer file, and I discovered what researching I have to do to figure out the gaps...well, let's just say that hours of research are hard to come by. I can write in 1-hour pockets. Research is more a whole day at the library, which I don't have anymore. So until the docket clears a little bit--till I get a few other projects out of the way--I think it's going to have to sit and simmer. The novel is still quite undeveloped, anyway. I think it could benefit from several months' stewing.
And oh yes, there's the Cardinal coming to celebrate school Mass with us at Columbia Catholic. I've done Masses with the Bishop before, but a Cardinal...well, that's a new one. I won't pretend that I'm not a little uncomfortable. You can imagine the kind of chaos we're undergoing at work, trying to have ourselves ready for that. :)
And it wouldn't be right not to mention Christian's Uncle Bob, who passed away last night. Uncle Bob went by "Rock." Take a moment and construct an image of a man who geos by "Rock." Now, throw your assumptions out the window. His demeanor was as opposite that as it could be. Well, almost as opposite. He was a little man, really, thin and quiet and gentle, very emotional, at least, that was my limited experience of him. He sent turkey joints to the Basi family every Christmas. Turkey Joints are a staple of Christmas tradition in my husband's family--so much so that they forget how weird it is to say, "Here, have a turkey joint!" Then people recoil and say, "WHAT????"
I do it now, too, despite having had the normal "What the...." reaction my first time. It took me 2 or 3 years to try one, but now I enjoy them. To those who don't know turkey joints, just Google it.
Uncle Bob, Christian's godfather, sent wonderfully sentimental cards in which he underlined every single word, and the important ones two or three times. What a good guy. He will be missed.
The trouble with a blog is that many of the things on my mind I can't talk about in public. Or, at least, it would be a bad idea to talk about in public. People I'd like to rake over the coals for things they've done...the details of other people's private lives, which I have no business spreading...you know, things like that.
That's the kind of stuff on my mind lately. But since I'm bored at the moment, why not wander a bit?
My weight is up. I had returned to my prepregnancy weight on the 20th of December, when we had Shakespeare's pizza with friends from Ohio, and after that night I've never recovered.
I say that because I'm hungry right now, at 3:30 p.m.
I've been having intermittent trouble sleeping again lately. I finally decided that there is no shame in taking something to help you sleep, as long as you don't get dependent on it. So I'll allow myself a sleep aid a maximum of every other day.
That's on my mind because we rearranged our bedroom last night and I had trouble sleeping, facing a different direction. Oddly enough I don't feel too tired today, though.
We spent the entire month of December painting our living room red. Then we ran out of money, and we still don't have curtains.
I say that because from my chair at the computer, I'm staring at a very bare window. I hate Venetian blinds. Who the heck came up with those things, anyway? They're cheap, they break, they're impossible to clean, they don't block the light... I just don't get it. Christian said to me once, "Well, I grew up with wood blinds. How do you feel about wood?"
"You still have to clean them!" I told him.
I tried cleaning them a while back. I got all ambitious. It lasted through two windows. (Our house has 9.)
Then there's writing stuff on my mind. My flute collection is already available at www.giamusic.com, and they told me it's going to be featured (I think that's what they said, anyway) in the catalog which should be arriving very soon. "Go In Peace," which is a song for congregation and contemporary ensemble, is at the printer's. WLP will be sending that out in some mailing soon, too. And also with WLP I'm in the editing process with my second song, "I Rejoice."
All three of these, by the way, were accepted for publication before Alex was six months old. Now he's nearly three, and I have another child, almost a year old. It boggled my mind to think the publishing process was so long--but now I know what to expect!
I think I'm headed for music writing for a while. It goes in spurts. I do prose for a while, then I get excited about music for a while, sometimes I juggle both...but I don't have that much time. And as much as I want to be writing, it has to take third place in my priorities--#s 1 and 2 are permanently occupied by husband and kids. (Well, for the next 20 years, anyway. After that writing may move up a notch.)
I'm going through this discontent with my new novel, which seems suddenly unimportant and boring to me. I had a great idea for a new novel, which occupied all my spare waking thought and then some for about a week. But once I got it hashed out on computer file, and I discovered what researching I have to do to figure out the gaps...well, let's just say that hours of research are hard to come by. I can write in 1-hour pockets. Research is more a whole day at the library, which I don't have anymore. So until the docket clears a little bit--till I get a few other projects out of the way--I think it's going to have to sit and simmer. The novel is still quite undeveloped, anyway. I think it could benefit from several months' stewing.
And oh yes, there's the Cardinal coming to celebrate school Mass with us at Columbia Catholic. I've done Masses with the Bishop before, but a Cardinal...well, that's a new one. I won't pretend that I'm not a little uncomfortable. You can imagine the kind of chaos we're undergoing at work, trying to have ourselves ready for that. :)
And it wouldn't be right not to mention Christian's Uncle Bob, who passed away last night. Uncle Bob went by "Rock." Take a moment and construct an image of a man who geos by "Rock." Now, throw your assumptions out the window. His demeanor was as opposite that as it could be. Well, almost as opposite. He was a little man, really, thin and quiet and gentle, very emotional, at least, that was my limited experience of him. He sent turkey joints to the Basi family every Christmas. Turkey Joints are a staple of Christmas tradition in my husband's family--so much so that they forget how weird it is to say, "Here, have a turkey joint!" Then people recoil and say, "WHAT????"
I do it now, too, despite having had the normal "What the...." reaction my first time. It took me 2 or 3 years to try one, but now I enjoy them. To those who don't know turkey joints, just Google it.
Uncle Bob, Christian's godfather, sent wonderfully sentimental cards in which he underlined every single word, and the important ones two or three times. What a good guy. He will be missed.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
The end and the beginning
In the last month, I have had to come to terms with the reality of Julianna’s Down Syndrome.
There is an initial grieving when you learn that your child has a disability. For some people it goes on forever. We were blessed—it was over in a few days. Then for a while, life goes on as normally as it can. A baby, after all, is a baby, and a child with DS, aside from heart conditions and so forth, isn’t different from any other baby.
But eventually the delays begin to show. For a while, you don’t notice, because your baby is your baby. Then you notice, but you think, ah, it’s only a little. Then come the niggling thoughts at inconvenient moments, like the middle of the night, or while you’re making dinner: Wasn’t Alex (fill in the blank) by (fill in the blank)? Well, you think, she is going to be delayed, after all, and holy cow, look at the way she works the room! Look at her sitting up!
Until, sometime around ten months, you think, she’s not putting anything in her mouth. I mean, nothing. You say, wait a minute, she’s getting close to a year and she’s not self-feeding. We’re still nursing five times a day because she can’t eat finger food. So you ask the occupational therapist, and the OT says, hmmmmmm….well, you know, I’m kind of stumped. I think you’re just going to have to wait till she’s ready.
You begin the process of switching OTs, because waiting just isn’t an option. She’s doing too well in other areas.
But even so, she’s eleven months old tomorrow, and she’s sitting up, but not transitioning in and out of sitting; she has to be helped into all-fours; she’s not pulling up and she only stands with a great deal of support on her butt.
So now the secondary grieving begins. This grief is not so all-consuming, so stormy, as the initial spat. This one goes much deeper. It lasts for months, accompanied by uncertainty and worry and fear. This grief is the grief of having to take an ugly, objective word like “retarded” and use it when describing your child. I still can’t do it. I have to say she’s “delayed.” My entire being cringes when I even think the other.
This was 2007.
Julianna is joy, and I rise up in blazing, righteous fury when I hear of people who choose to “terminate” their babies’ lives because of DS. (“Terminate,” as if ending a child’s life is no more consequential than firing a person.) And yet I also have to be honest and say that I have never in my life been so glad to see a calendar year pass into history.
For 2008, I’ll be satisfied if we can just stay out of the hospital.
There is an initial grieving when you learn that your child has a disability. For some people it goes on forever. We were blessed—it was over in a few days. Then for a while, life goes on as normally as it can. A baby, after all, is a baby, and a child with DS, aside from heart conditions and so forth, isn’t different from any other baby.
But eventually the delays begin to show. For a while, you don’t notice, because your baby is your baby. Then you notice, but you think, ah, it’s only a little. Then come the niggling thoughts at inconvenient moments, like the middle of the night, or while you’re making dinner: Wasn’t Alex (fill in the blank) by (fill in the blank)? Well, you think, she is going to be delayed, after all, and holy cow, look at the way she works the room! Look at her sitting up!
Until, sometime around ten months, you think, she’s not putting anything in her mouth. I mean, nothing. You say, wait a minute, she’s getting close to a year and she’s not self-feeding. We’re still nursing five times a day because she can’t eat finger food. So you ask the occupational therapist, and the OT says, hmmmmmm….well, you know, I’m kind of stumped. I think you’re just going to have to wait till she’s ready.
You begin the process of switching OTs, because waiting just isn’t an option. She’s doing too well in other areas.
But even so, she’s eleven months old tomorrow, and she’s sitting up, but not transitioning in and out of sitting; she has to be helped into all-fours; she’s not pulling up and she only stands with a great deal of support on her butt.
So now the secondary grieving begins. This grief is not so all-consuming, so stormy, as the initial spat. This one goes much deeper. It lasts for months, accompanied by uncertainty and worry and fear. This grief is the grief of having to take an ugly, objective word like “retarded” and use it when describing your child. I still can’t do it. I have to say she’s “delayed.” My entire being cringes when I even think the other.
This was 2007.
Julianna is joy, and I rise up in blazing, righteous fury when I hear of people who choose to “terminate” their babies’ lives because of DS. (“Terminate,” as if ending a child’s life is no more consequential than firing a person.) And yet I also have to be honest and say that I have never in my life been so glad to see a calendar year pass into history.
For 2008, I’ll be satisfied if we can just stay out of the hospital.
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